


fact // weapon

by charizona



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Edgeplay, F/F, Face-Sitting, Guns, Smut and Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27812287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: They are, without a doubt, the worst kind of poetry. The kind that sticks in your throat, garnishes your teeth like taffy. Who would tell this story? The unloved becoming the divine. Certainly not Villanelle, certainly not Eve. Eve doesn’t even have any friends. The two of them, falling for each other, falling apart, falling, falling — hitting the ground softly somehow. Can you believe it?
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 55
Kudos: 181





	fact // weapon

**Author's Note:**

> no thoughts just vibes

This is why she waited.

This is why she didn’t kill Eve, the three hundred and four times she had the chance. The chance, the possibility of them starting as rain and somehow flooding into a lake full of a twisted rake of trust, full of salt and suffering. The two of them. Floating. Fingers dancing apart with the sway of the waves because what are they, if not teasing?

They are, without a doubt, the worst kind of poetry. The kind that sticks in your throat, garnishes your teeth like taffy. Who would tell this story? The unloved becoming the divine. Certainly not Villanelle, certainly not _Eve_. Eve doesn’t even have any friends. The two of them, falling for each other, falling apart, falling, falling — hitting the ground softly somehow. Can you believe it? Villanelle never did, never did until Eve moved against her the first time, her smooth skin and soft hips. 

The first time had been slow, an even push and pull between the two of them. After, more frenzied, of course, more give and more take. Villanelle caught herself wiping away either sweat or tears, the two indistinguishable at the time. Maybe she cried to see what it felt like to cry and fall at the same time, to curl into Eve and not worry about _anything_. They fell into an easy rhythm after that, the same song weaving static between their skin. 

Music plays now, Eve’s fingers using the inside of Villanelle like piano keys. Press here, Villanelle gasps. Press there, Villanelle groans and shivers and shakes, deep tugs of arousal pulling her inside out. 

Eve sings into her skin, murmurs of progress, murmurs of _you feel… you’re doing so well..._ _fuck, Villanelle, fuck…_ The words, all of it’s just poetry. Might as well be in a book. She lets Eve pepper kisses against her throat, she lets Eve hold her in place and fuck her languidly, devastatingly slow, pushing Villanelle toward the end over and over and over again but never quite letting the curtains fall. 

Eve has… Eve has learned quite a lot in these weeks together. She has learned about the place behind Villanelle’s ear, preferably the left one, where the skin is soft and sensitive. She gnaws at it as often as she can, which is often, as Villanelle lets her. Eve drags a nail against the spot, digging the rest of her fingers into the hair at the base of Villanelle’s head — _just barely_ tugging. Villanelle blinks and jerks and whispers, “Eve,” in a voice so breathless she hardly recognizes it. “ _Please_.”

“Villanelle,” Eve replies, easy and hard and she’s not going to let Villanelle out that easy, is she? The way she says Villanelle’s name, it could be the thousandth time and Villanelle would not tire of hearing it. She feels seen in the purest way; as though in death, a Y-incision across her chest and her skin pulled apart and open, her insides exposed. Eve’s fingers writhe inside of her cunt and inside of her guts, pulling at spongy flesh and sticky flesh, too. Eve is hard lines and hard edges, and Villanelle is persistently soft, despite her best efforts.

She wants to be more solid. For Eve. 

“Jesus,” Eve murmurs, half smiling, half mouth open and jaw slack. Eyes trained on Villanelle, the effort is wearing on her too. Her breath comes in gasps, her thumb moves in a clumsy circle, pulling yet another small moan from Villanelle’s lips, hovering against Eve’s throat, bouncing off the skin there and dragging harshly against it, interchangeable. Incomplete.

Eve continues, “I like this.”

“You like being mean?” Villanelle shakes against her, driving closer to yet another edge. She’d almost tumbled straight off it, last time, the clock striking midnight as she turned into a pesky roadrunner and her legs kept going and going and going, in mid-air, weightless. Except Eve caught her by the elbow and dragged her back.

“Yes,” Eve admits. “But also you… I could kill you, if I wanted.”

“You tried that once,” Villanelle reminds her. Eve’s thumb presses onto her clit and she jerks like a shot. “ _Fuck_ ,” she whines, squeezing her eyes tight. “ _Eve_.”

“No,” Eve says, strikingly harsh in tone. “Eyes open.”

Villanelle shakes her head. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t, except — Eve pulls her fingers right out of her. Slides her hand out from between Villanelle’s legs. When Villanelle cries, it’s not on purpose. It’s frustration, it’s the knot twisting in her stomach, it’s, “ _Fuck you_ ,” spilling out of her lips. She presses her face into the pillow. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck—”

“Shh,” Eve mutters, putting her fingers on Villanelle’s lips. She effectively silences her, then slides them past Villanelle’s lips, pressing down on her tongue. Wordlessly, Villanelle hollows her cheeks and sucks, lets her tongue pull against the taste of herself on Eve’s lips. “Good,” Eve says, lips just an inch or two away from where Villanelle sucks on her.

A thigh slips between Villanelle’s legs and she grinds on it, gasping around the fingers in her mouth. Eve slides them out and grabs her by the jaw, holds her there as she works the leg against her and grinds, ripping Villanelle right open.

Is this what capture feels like? Being held, feeling home. Eve has her, wholly and completely. Possession — the way Villanelle thought she had Eve, in those ruins just a year ago. She thought they would’ve had this, had they gotten on a plane and played house in the snow. They would’ve killed each other, either right away or slowly, sickeningly. Not like this. Never like this.

The hunt of it, it’s still here. Villanelle is always hunting, Eve is always prey. She will never be caught — it’s Villanelle caught, forever running, forever chasing, forever loving every fucking minute of it.

Eve will, always, be terrific bait. Hair like acid, dizzying and dangerous, and a tongue like death. She knows how to taste, be terrified of the way she fucks and the way she argues and the way she thinks aloud, so beautiful and so _cute_. Ha. Sometimes, she’ll tuck it behind her ear without realizing it, letting a few strands fall into her face and just hang there. Villanelle wants to twirl that strand around her finger, constantly. It sticks to her forehead when they’re in bed like this, for hours, so, so warm. Villanelle buries herself in it, when she can — most notably, when she’s bending Eve over the couch, pressing her face into Eve’s hair which presses Eve’s face into the cushion. Hard and fast, that’s how Eve likes it best.

Which is why it is so _infuriating_ that she takes her time with Villanelle. She is so greedy.

Fingers find her again, pressing up and into and against. Villanelle is raw and willing and _tired_ , ruined in the way only Eve can.

“Come for me,” Eve says, and who is she to argue?

It is Eve’s hand, palm against her clit, and it is Eve’s hip, moving in time with her fingers and her arm and her shoulder, thrusting quick, tugging against Villanelle as she tumbles, gasping, and breaks into three thousand pieces. Eve holds her through it, after hours, _hours, Eve_ , and her other hand slides underneath their bodies to grab onto Villanelle’s head.

They kiss. Messy and open and needing, tongues tasting and teeth scraping. Villanelle lets Eve drag her through a second orgasm. Her stomach clenches and she rocks hard into Eve, crying out, and as she comes down from it, breathing hard, Eve just looks at her. Marvels. Brushes damp hair out of her face. Shakes her head.

“What?” Villanelle says finally, when she can. When her voice feels steady.

“Just you,” Eve replies, giving her a kiss. 

Villanelle swears, that at some point, Eve ripped her open at the jaw and just climbed right inside. Maybe she’s been there the entire time, waiting for that bathroom, waiting for Paris, waiting for Rome, waiting for a bridge in London. They are always doing dramatic things in very dramatic things, Villanelle is impressed. Okay, so maybe the bridge is not _so_ dramatic, but they talked about _jumping_ , such as. Let them believe what they must.

The point being — Eve burns through her like fire inside of her throat. Like soot, just stuck there, and no matter how hard Villanelle tries, she’s there, and she always will be.

What a terrible thing. Love.

Maybe that’s what it is! Is this what it feels like, for real this time? Terrifying, agonizing, wonderful, warm. All of it, all at once.

“Eve,” Villanelle says, because she is not saying _I love you_. They are lying on their sides, they are woven together, and Villanelle presses kisses to Eve’s neck, Eve’s collarbone, Eve’s breast. Her teeth tug against Eve’s nipple, lapping at it, sucking at it, pulling Eve close by the waist with strong, guiding fingers. 

She reaches around Eve’s leg, presses tentative fingertips against the heat of her, feels how wet she is. She wants Eve to use her, drown her in the taste of it, so she drags her lips down, down, down, tonguing her clit and diving deeper, burying her face between her legs.

With a pull, she twists Eve closer to on top of her, scurrying into place as Eve gets the message. She sits up, half straddling Villanelle’s face as she situates. From down here, she looks radiant. Her hair falls against her shoulders, down her back. She holds the headboard to hold herself up, for just a moment, then looks down at Villanelle, an unspoken question passing between the two of them. 

_Did you miss me? The way I feel against you, when you want it like this, when I want to give it to you like this?_ Villanelle stretches her neck up, kisses Eve before prying her apart, digging her way in, suffocating on the taste of her. 

It becomes a power of wills. Eve presses down, Villanelle pushes back. Eve’s hips move of their own accord — she’s never been good at controlling herself, not like Villanelle can. She takes what she wants, when she wants it. She takes now, from Villanelle, uses Villanelle as a hard spot rubbing just _right_ against her. Which is fine, more than fine, better than anything. Villanelle is a willing companion, just happy to be included. Eve moves on top of her and Villanelle holds her in the small space between the tops of her thighs and her hips, right where she hinges.

Sex is their most sincere form of honesty. They lie to each other all the time. Villanelle tells Eve there is nothing to worry about when she goes out. Eve tells Villanelle she isn’t upset about any of it, anything at all. They have their secrets.

Not like this. Not _during_ this.

There are no secrets here — they are both too good for that. There is nothing secret about the way they want each other, live _off_ each other. Symbiosis, perhaps. A parasitic semblance of companionship, each leeching and leeching until there’s nothing left between the both of them.

And maybe that shouldn’t be the way it is. Fuck it, Villanelle’s tried _healthy_. She’s tried _normal._ She doesn’t like it. It’s not like this. All the rest, they tried too hard to contain her, whatever that means. Eve holds her, Eve helps her, but Eve doesn’t hold her back. They are equals now, if you can believe it.

So equal Eve lets Villanelle watch her like this. Breathless, needy, gasping. Desperate for release. Villanelle dips her tongue inside and Eve says, “ _Fuck--_ fuck me, _fuck_ ,” and Villanelle would laugh, if she weren’t otherwise occupied. Her upper lip brushes against Eve’s clit, her hand sneaks between the two of them, a finger slipping into Eve, driving hard, no preamble.

Eve’s hand shoots out and grips the headboard. Her other hand sinks to Villanelle’s hair, holds her tighter against her. It’s been a minute since Villanelle took a breath, but mortality might be a small price to pay these days. She lets Eve grind against her, _use her_ , so wonderfully and utterly. 

Villanelle wants to see. Would Eve look like this, had Villanelle repaid her a knife owed for years? Would Eve look like this, in Villanelle’s arms with a bullet in her chest? Would Eve blush as she is, cheeks red and chest glistening, right before death? Villanelle hopes death tastes as sweet as Eve — Eve comes and Villanelle feels the flood of her between her lips. Most of it gushes past her cheeks, as Eve rocks forward and presses her cunt hard against Villanelle’s mouth. She grips the headboard and shakes, the shocks of it dancing on her spine, a livewire. Villanelle holds her by the thighs; there will definitely be shadows of bruises left over in the morning. 

The only sounds in the room are the slide of Eve against Villanelle and Eve’s breath, coming in quick gasps.

She groans as she flops into bed, onto her back. Villanelle immediately curls into her, wrapping around her middle in that way people do in the movies, as they ignore how sweaty they’re both supposed to be, how solitary an experience the aftermath of an orgasm may be. Villanelle holds her as tightly as she dares, hoping they might melt into each other and walk out of this room as one, instead of the two they started as.

“How would you do it,” Villanelle says against Eve’s shoulder.

“There’s a gun in the nightstand.”

Villanelle lifts her head, scandalized. “There is _not_.”

Eve reaches over, and surely, surely she’s just fucking with Villanelle. Except in a moment there is the cool press of metal against her, the barrel of a gun right on her chest, inches from her heart. Eve says, “I’d pull the trigger. Easy.”

Except _not_ so easy, Eve. Villanelle _easily_ grabs the gun from Eve, twisting her wrist in a way that hurts, before swinging a leg over Eve’s hips. Two hands on the gun, barrel pressed between Eve’s eyes. Eve blinks at her.

Villanelle can feel her breath catch, the way her diaphragm flexes, with her cunt.

“Do it,” Eve says, except she and Villanelle both know what she means. She does not mean pull the trigger, she means hold the gun there, right there, and use her other hand between her legs. Fuck her like she means it, cold metal against her temple.

Guns are not poetry. Perhaps that is why they are the worst. Sex isn’t poetry, either. Poetry is poetry, it is not the way Eve bucks against her, the way Eve holds her hand as Villanelle thrusts into her, the way Eve says _Villanelle, Villanelle, Villanelle_. This are not poetic, they are written, retold, wondered about. Poetry after the fact. Sex is never once beautiful, it is hot and need and want. Desperation, twisting.

Love, like poetry, burns hot. It is not lukewarm, it is not freezing. Villanelle is not standing in the cold, she _is_ the cold, and Eve is flame, licking across her skin, crying out beneath her. 

Maybe she is loving. But who has time to figure that out?

**Author's Note:**

> sort of a love letter to eve polastri and a return to me finding pleasure in the way words fall together sometimes.


End file.
